


time after time

by clxude



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Time Skips, Undefined Relationship, beka has issues but they're never given detail, brief intoxication, that's not the tag but i'm sick and out of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clxude/pseuds/clxude
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky's life could be divided into four sections - before skating, junior division, his first year of senior division, and now. But, if he tried hard enough, he could divide his life into two - before he met Otabek, and now, when he has Otabek by his side.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's a good song ok  
> also thank you ray (kxrasuno/sarcasticpsacenerd) for editing at 2 when i was fucked up on cold medicine and sneezing constantly  
> happy 2017

Yuri Plisetsky’s life could easily be divided into four sections - before he learned to skate (he barely remembers it, and some of his earliest memories are tripping over his toe picks as he clutches his grandfather’s hands and jacket); his time in the junior division (he remembers this clearly, and the long practices and bloody toes and sore muscles, paired with his constant drive to stay number one and never let anyone take that from him); his first year in the senior division (training with Victor and Piggy, always being second best, giving everything to Lilia and Yakov for a gold medal at the Grand Prix Finals); and now (long practices, motorcycles, and more gold medals than Victor and his husband combined).

 

Or maybe, there’s an easier way to divide the time, a clear slice between then and now. Maybe he could have seen it sooner, if he was willing to look, if even Victor and the other Yuuri could spot it, commenting every time they stop by the rink to skate slow figure-eights and giggle into each other’s necks.

 

It’s obvious, in retrospect, how the last five years differ to the previous fifteen. It’s neat and simple and clean, free of overlap and distraction.

 

There are the first fifteen years, alone, and the last five, with Otabek by his side.

 

…

 

When he’s sixteen, Otabek drops off of the face of the earth and Yuri is stuck with Victor and Yuuri. They both show up to practice every day and work hard, but it’s clear that their hearts aren’t in it anymore when they spend their breaks talking about wedding venues and color palettes. It annoys Yuri to no end, because first of all, they don’t actually get off of the fucking ice, and second of all, he knows Victor could rip some program with a pretentious theme out of his ass halfway through september and still walk away with a handful of gold medals.

 

Yuri practices every second Yakov will let him and not a moment less, even when he’s half out of his mind with the flu and a 102 degree fever.

 

…

 

He’s seventeen when the lovebirds finally seal the deal, two days after Grand Prix Finals. The wedding is in a field a few miles outside of Marseille. The whole thing is disgustingly sweet, with Yuuri kissing Victor before the officiant says they can.

 

Yuri ends up talking one of the catering girls into giving him dessert early, so he can slink a few hundred feet away from the main venue and sulk. The cake is dry and crumbling and the frosting is hard and tacky. Yuri hates it, but he can’t tell if he hates it because it’s Victor’s wedding or because it’s the worse cake he’s ever tasted.

 

He sneaks back for wine, and texts Otabek _‘this wedding is shit why aren’t you here’_ when the bottle is three quarters empty. He falls asleep on dry winter grass instead of waiting for a response that will never come.

 

Otabek never responds when he’s nursing his wounded pride. Yuri wouldn’t be surprised if he left his phone in the hotel room in France for that very reason.

 

…

 

They don’t really talk until the following season, when Otabek ships himself to St Petersburg to replace his coach. From what Yuri knows, his old one never was in the professional circuit and can’t land a single quad, but that almost makes Yuri look up to him more - the Kazakhstani skater who’s gone up against so much and won.

 

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t push him to the brink in practice, though.

 

…

 

They talk, calling each other after almost every competition they don’t share. Yuri talks shit about the other skaters in the league, Otabek asks if he wants to have dinner at his apartment.

 

They have it down to a science, almost - being a constant presence in each other's lives without any promises of what tomorrow will mean. Promises are easy to break, in Yuri’s experience. Maybe it makes things more solid, like the support cables on a bridge. But, then again, it’s hard to focus on the architecture when there’s a two hundred foot drop below you.

 

…

 

“Do you want to come over tonight? Yuuri is making katsudon,” Victor asks. Yuri doesn’t know why he bothers to come to the rink anymore - he’s thirty years old and can barely make a quad on a good day.

 

“The fuck? Why would I want to go to your shitty apartment?”

 

“So you already have plans with Otabek?” Yuuri asks from the other side of Victor. To be honest, Yuri is surprised his Russian extends past the bedroom. “It’s okay. You can come tomorrow, if your dates with Otabek aren’t planned for the foreseeable future.”

 

“They’re not dates,” he grumbles. “Not everyone wants to be like you, idiot.”

 

“So, you just go over for dinner,” Victor says. He’s smiling and leaning close enough for Yuri to feel the warmth of his breath.

 

“It’s just borscht,” Yuri argues. “You can’t have borscht on a date.”

 

“And you stay the night, occasionally.”

 

“That’s not true - !”

 

“You came to practice wearing the same outfit as the day before, Yurio.” Yuuri doesn’t even look up from his phone, but he doesn’t need to - the statement cuts deep enough on its own for that.

 

“Shut up, Piggy,” he spits, grabbing his bag and storming out of the rink without another word. It’s over dramatic, sure, but he has an image to keep. He texts Otabek that he’s coming over earlier than usual, and doesn’t wait for a response before he’s hailing a cab.

 

…

 

He’s nineteen the first time he sees Otabek without his normal stoic calm, and that’s only because he's drunk off of minibar liquor.

 

Otabek hadn’t answered his phone, or even read any of the messages that Yuri sent. It annoyed the fuck out of him, because he wanted to congratulate Otabek on his gold medal goddamn it, and they’re friends, and friends are supposed to talk.

 

“Open up - “ he shouts, banging his first on the wood. The door swings open, and Otabek smiles at him. His hair is messy, going every which way.

 

“Mm, Yura,” he whispers, breath wet against Yuri’s neck. He leans heavily against the nineteen-year-old, heavy enough that Yuri has to wiggle around until the doorframe helps bear some of the load.

 

“You really shouldn’t get drunk on your own,” he says, once they’re finally situated on the bed. He grabbed the trashcan from the bathroom in case Otabek decides to start throwing up, as well as a bottle of water. He doesn’t have any pain medication, so there’s little he can do about headaches in the morning.

 

“But, mm, you’re too young to drink, and, ahh, I wouldn’t give alcohol to someone illegally.”

 

“I’m nineteen - ?” Yuri just shakes his head. “Why couldn’t you drink with someone else, then? It didn’t have to be me.”

 

“You’re my only friend, Yura - “ Otabek decides that is the best moment to throw up. The only good thing is that he uses the trashcan, but it still annoys Yuri.

 

(It annoys him even more that Otabek is his only friend, as well.)

 

“Okay,” he says, rubbing Otabek’s back. “Okay.”

 

A few minutes later, once Otabek has settled down for the most part, Yuri stands. It’s hard to pry Otabek off of him, even if it is just to grab a wet washcloth from the bathroom.

 

“It’ll make you feel better, Beka.”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“Beka, come on. You have to let go. It’ll help, I promise.”

 

“You make me feel better, though, Yura.”

 

He stops, staring into Otabek’s wide eyes. He doesn’t think they’ve ever been this close before, even that time back in Barcelona on Otabek’s bike.

 

“We’re not doing this right now.”

 

He doesn’t know what this is, but he knows what he means - _not now, when you won’t remember; not now, when you might now mean it; not now, when I don’t know you want it._

 

“Please.” It sounds broken, not like the soldier Otabek saw him as four years ago. Otabek makes him weak, for better or worse. “Please. I need you to let go.”

 

Otabek listens, this time, and Yuri stumbles away. His hips feel warm where Otabek’s arms had been locked around them. He’s peeled back, exposed to the bone. It’s not the worst sensation, but it’s foreign, a cold liquid seeping into his bones.

 

He switches on the light in the bathroom and finds Otabek’s phone in the sink. The basin is filled with water, the tap not all the way off. Yuri sticks his head out of the bathroom.

 

“Hey, Beka? Why is your phone in the sink?”

 

“It wouldn’t stop beeping. Everyone wanted to congratulate me, and the messages just kept coming.”

 

Yuri’s brow wrinkles. “Why didn’t you just turn your phone off, then?”

 

“Because then they would still come eventually.”

 

It makes sense, in a weird sensory overload sort of way. He pops the drain and watches the water swirl around, but leaves the phone. It’s probably too soaked for rice at this point, and Yuri isn’t sure where he would find some, anyway.

 

Once he has a damp washcloth in hand, he heads back to the bathroom. Otabek is laying down on his side, and his legs are hanging off of the bed. Yuri sits by his side and looks at him.

 

“Come on, roll over,” he whispers, tapping Otabek’s side until the skater looks at him. He’s sweating, but not too badly. Yuri grips his chin as he wipes away the perspiration, cooling down Otabek’s flushed skin.

 

“Try to drink some water. I don’t want you to be hungover on the flight home.”

 

He starts to slide off of the bed, but Otabek stops him again.

 

“Can you stay?” He looks small, with his pinked skin and bloodshot eyes.

 

Yuri needs to pack - he has an early flight tomorrow - Yakov will freak out when he’s not in his room in the morning -

 

“Okay,” he says, laying down next to Otabek. “Yeah, of course.”

 

…

 

“I think this might be my last year,” Otabek tells him. Otabek is twenty-three. It’s not old, middle aged, if anything, for a skater.

 

“Why? You got first place at the Grand Prix Finals last year.”

 

“Isn’t it better to end on a high note?”

 

But he doesn’t want this to end, a roller coaster ride of emotions and not-dinner dates and hotel sleepovers. He’s comfortable, and it’s enough - a happy medium between being alone and being Victor fucking Nikiforov.

 

“I guess.”

 

…

 

Yuri gets gold at Grand Prix, and Otabek comes in second right behind him. They skip the gala and crash in Yuri’s room, throw back the sheets and watch shitty game shows in a language neither of them understand. He switches Otabek’s phone over to mute when messages begin to roll in, and holds Otabek's hands still when they twitch.

 

“It’s loud,” Otabek says. The show reflects in his eyes, bright, neon and shoddy camera work. “It makes it hard to think.”

 

“I know,” Yuri replies, even though he really doesn’t. He skates when he can’t think, plays his program music and throws himself into the jumps. He lives for the applause following every motion, feeds off of the bated breath of the audience. “I know.”

 

A buzzer goes off, and money falls on a contestant. Otabek falls asleep soon, but Yuri keeps watching. The lights are captivating, addicting, flickering in time to the music.

 

He falls asleep to the rhythm of Otabek’s heart underneath his cheek. Yuri doesn’t spend much time thinking about how it got there.

 

…

 

“Don’t you get tired of this?” Otabek asks. He’s done, free of the circuit and long practices and grueling schedules. Yuri comes over everyday, if only to remind him of the sun rising and days passing.

 

“I can get better.”

 

“I didn’t say that. But - “ He started drinking coffee recently, to replace the adrenaline of the ice. Yuri doesn’t think it works well. He twitches constantly, always has his fingers wrapped around a steaming mug. Yuri doesn’t think he has a phone anymore. “Doesn’t it get tiring?”

 

“Don’t you get lonely? Being cooped up in your apartment all day?”

 

“I’m not lonely. I have you.”

 

“That’s not the same thing. One person can’t be enough.”

 

“But don’t you only have one friend?”

 

“I guess - “

 

“See? I’m happy with just you, anyway.”

 

…

 

Otabek goes to his competitions. He doesn’t cheer - just flashes a thumbs up whenever Yuri looks at him. It’s not the same thing, and it’s not the fans who cheer and scream and cry, waving signs, hoping that Yuri will glance at them for even a moment.

 

But, it makes Yuri’s heart race all the same.

 

…

 

Yuri moves in with Otabek a few months later. His apartment is big enough for both of them and Yuri spends most of his time there, anyway, when he’s not at the rink. It’s a natural progression - two close friends rooming together.

 

Victor still makes fun of him for hours the next time they see each other, though.

 

…

 

“I’m home!” Yuri calls, swinging the door shut behind him. There’s snow in his hair and his eyelashes are frosty. It’s been cold and dreary all week, and he try as he might to get home before the first snowfall, he was unsuccessful.

 

“I’m in the kitchen!”

 

Yuri grunts in response and kicks his boots off in the entryway, ignoring the muddy snow they leave behind. It’s a problem for future Yuri. Or for Otabek. Probably for Otabek. He stops by his room to strip off all of his layers and tug on some sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt. The shoulders are too broad for him, and it’s probably Otabek’s, actually, but they’ve been living together for long enough that it doesn’t really matter, anymore.

 

The kitchen is warm, heated up by the oven and stove. Otabek stands in the middle of it all, perfectly aware of everything happening around him. Yuri doesn’t know how he does it, but the blond also can’t cook microwaveable popcorn without setting off the smoke alarm.

 

“Can you taste this?” Otabek asks, not looking at him. He holds a spoon out in Yuri’s vague direction. The wood is dyed pink from how many times they’ve made borscht over the years.

 

“It needs to cook longer,” Yuri says, not bothering to take the spoon from Otabek.

 

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

 

Yuri rolls his eyes and steps closer. “What is it?”

 

“Surprise.”

 

“Then how will I know if it tastes right?”

 

Otabek sighs and turns around. His cheek is red. Yuri is pretty sure it’s tomato sauce. “Do you like it or not?”

 

“Oh.” He takes the spoon and licks it. “It’s good.”

 

“Okay.” Otabek nods, taking the spoon and tossing it in the sink. “Now, out. You’re in my way.”

 

“Love you, too!” Yuri yells from his room.

 

“Whatever. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Can you start the laundry?”

 

…

 

They’re cleaning, or trying to, at least. Yuri turned on some music - synth german rock - which turned into dancing, which turned into something decidedly not cleaning and barely able to be considered dancing.

 

It’s an old couch and it makes Otabek smile, blush hard and go all giggly, so Yuri can ignore the dusty bookshelves for another week.

 

…

 

They’re not Victor and the Japanese Yuuri, and they never will be. There’s no wedding in France, no declarations of love on international television. There aren’t even good luck kisses before a free skate where cameras might see.

 

But there is this - dancing in _their_ apartment to music they don’t understand. And there is this - eating borscht and doing laundry and watching television at two am, drunk on what might be their anniversary.  And there’s this - holding hands, walking by the water instead of attending the Grand Prix Finals Gala.

 

They don’t need lights and cameras and performance, when they have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed, leave comments, kudos, etc  
> tumblr - violet-boy & mother-iwa-chan  
> i'm going back to sleep, see you this afternoon whenever i get home and wake up and post achromatic,  
> (and i promise adron is coming. soon)
> 
> if you enjoyed this, please reblog the link on tumblr!! https://violet-boy.tumblr.com/post/155250434318/time-after-time-clxude-yuri-on-ice-anime


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